JXHQ: Coffee and Aspirin
by thechokesonyou
Summary: ONESHOT. The morning after the Joker escapes from Arkham, he ponders over his feelings about leaving his doctor behind. Harleen Quinzel seems to have made a deeper impression on the clown than either of them had thought.


It smelled like vanilla.

Blue eyes watched from underneath, the look of adoration and worship never fading. It thrilled him, and that thrilled her.

Red lips, smeared across her cheek.

Light black streaks of makeup running from her eyes, dripping…

_Dripping…_

Like her blood…

Copper. Iron.

_Red._

A beautiful color, really.

_So much red._

Red lips, red tears, red skin, red blood.

She was red.

Everything was red.

_Everything._

His head ached as he woke up, and the first thought that came to mind, was _coffee. _Following as a close second, was _aspirin. _"Rocco!" He shouted, his voice thundering and the action made his headache grow. After minutes of silence, he growled again into the hideout. "Goddammit, Rocco!" His nostrils flared. "You've gotta do everything yourself, _don't we_?" His mouth tasted like battery acid. _Coffee. _He swung his legs out of the bed and shuffled on bare feet out of the bedroom. Sunlight filtered in through the window on the wall, making the floating dust shimmer. The room was empty.

The memories hit him like a brick wall.

The dead orderlies... the syringe in Arkham's chest… The sirens, god were the sirens loud… His doctor's face, those ruby red lips parted just enough and her eyes lowered and his stomach seemed to churn as he thought of those eyes, those baby blue eyes. His head spun again and he groaned. New hideout, no henchmen, no _coffee. _He looked down at his clothes and saw the familiar gray arkham jumpsuit. The top half was dropped behind him, his chest bare and sweaty and pale. The Joker grimaced as he looked around the room. He hadn't remembered coming here last night. It had all been a blur once he'd gotten off the asylum grounds. Now he was shacked up in a shitty, foreclosed house in the Narrows. It was pretty obvious that he was still in the Narrows, just from looking out the window. He must not have gone far from Arkham. Of course, that was the best course of action. Who expected him to hide right under their noses? Besides, as many squatters as there were in this part of town, no one would think anything of a slept-on mattress or no settled dust if they checked this place out once he was gone.

The first thing he did was head to the kitchen. It smelled like rotten eggs, or soiled milk, or something of the liking, and he didn't bother looking in the refrigerator to find the source of the smell. The Joker flung open the cabinet doors, unsurprised to find what looked like mouse droppings and cobwebs. Throughout the entirety of the kitchen, he was able to find a package of crushed Saltines, a half full container of generic coffee grounds, and what looked to be a tattered copy of the Old Testament. On the counter, a beat-up coffee maker waited for him to use it. After clicking the on button and hearing it fizzle against the lack of water, he - with a satisfied grin - filled the tank with water and then scavenged for coffee filters. After a moment of frustration, he grabbed the bible from the counter, ripped off the top page and shoved it down inside the coffee maker, pouring the grounds in after. Grunting in satisfaction, he closed the lid and waited patiently till the pot was half brewed before taking the pot out, pouring it into an unclean cup from the cabinet beside him and guzzling it back. He didn't even flinch as it burned his throat. He welcomed the burn. They didn't allow him coffee in the asylum. With a sleep schedule as erratic as his, they prevented him from having any caffeine, hoping to get him back on a normal sleep pattern. Of course, it hadn't worked. Caffeine was just a boost, and although it helped, he could live without it. The Joker didn't need sleep. He was human, and needed rest, and he acknowledged that freely, but he also didn't see the point of wasting precious hours in comatose. He'd developed an immunity to exhaustion.

Now though, after so long without his favorite beverage, he couldn't stop himself from draining the entire pot, even though it was the most disgusting coffee he'd ever tried. He always drank his coffee black, but as anyone who had black coffee would know, some coffee tasted amazing that way, and others tasted like acid. This was the latter. He dropped the plastic cup in the sink, satisfied for the time being.

He rubbed his temples, then. So much to do, so little time. He knew a few of the boys would be back at the last hideout. Most of the guys he hired had nowhere else to go, and nothing to do until he came back from wherever it was he was being locked up. The old theater they'd claimed to six months ago was only a few blocks north. He could easily get there in minutes, though he'd have to patiently wait till dark. The Joker was not a patient man.

As he glared out the window next to the dingy mattress, his thoughts quickly flipped from topic to topic and surprisingly came to a stop on the face of Harleen Quinzel. _Harley, _He growled in his head. Harley Quinn, his little harlequin doctor. He wondered absently what she was doing at this moment. Was she back at the asylum, working with some other patient? Was she home, watching the news, anxious to hear something about the Joker's whereabouts? He knew she'd be thinking about him. Although the Joker was not one to have affection for people, he felt slightly sick to his stomach as he thought of the way her eyebrows had pulled low and the look of betrayal in her eyes as he raced towards the exit. He immediately snarled, angry that she'd made him feel any sort of emotion. It was just because he'd been having fun with her, he told himself. That's all. She was not important, and although he'd... Immensely enjoyed having her as his doctor, he told himself he wouldn't think of her now. No matter what subject he thought of next, her face was always in the corner of his mind.

Angrily, he stood up, grabbing a hold of the desk against the opposite wall. His knuckles were white with the irritation he felt and with a growl, he flipped the desk over. It crashed against the floor violently and he shook with the adrenaline he felt. Maybe drinking so much caffeine wasn't wise after such a long time without. Or maybe little Harley Quinn had rooted herself deeper in his head than he'd ever thought she could.

**Please review guys! It puts a smile on my face!**


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